


now let me at the truth (which will refresh my broken mind)

by voidify



Series: sigh no more (valvert vignettes) [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (the piner does not know that he is pining but he is), Angst, Canon Era, Character Development, Depression, Gen, Javert Lives, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Seine, References to Past Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, at the plot point where javert goes back to work and he and vj drift apart for a bit, but there’s pining, despite all those tags it has a super hopeful ending, javert interrupting people, my usual anachronism disclaimer applies, police work, set in the standard valvert canon divergence au, the valvert hasn’t actually happened (yet) at this point in the timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 06:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17935019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidify/pseuds/voidify
Summary: Returning to work for the first time after his attempt on his own life, Javert encounters an unexpected recurrence of his earlier crisis. But this time, he does not need intervention to survive.





	now let me at the truth (which will refresh my broken mind)

**Author's Note:**

> The oneshot gods of inspiration have blessed me once again! I wrote the entire first draft by hand in a notebook over the course of one day— my computer wasn’t available, but I had a sudden rush of inspiration, a notebook, and a lot of idle time. After a bit of editing, I think it's turned out pretty good. 
> 
> This is technically a prequel to “[i’ll know my name as it’s called again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17917208)”, as I intend them to be set in the same post-seine timeline, but both fics can be read standalone. Like that fic, this fic has a title taken from “The Cave” by Mumford & Sons (a very good song full of valvert energy, by a very good band whose entire discography is notable for its valvert energy). I've tried to incorporate some further parallels to the song in this fic, so if you spot any they're probably intentional.
> 
> If I write more fics in this post-seine universe, especially if they also use lyrics from that song (or other songs by that band) as titles, I might create an ao3 series to organise them in roughly chronological order.

After a long period of recovery, Javert was finally judged well enough (in both body and mind) to return to work. The structure granted by work was a long-awaited comfort, and Javert was somewhat glad to no longer be dependent on Valjean, now that he had other things to fill his time (though his heart ached at the separation in a way he could not quite identify). A substantial but manageable number of cases opened during his absence were waiting on his desk for his perusal. He was informed that particularly time-sensitive cases had been solved as they came— mostly by Dubois and Chevalier, the two next-most-competent inspectors in the arrondissement— but a good many were left for him.

An unexpected but minor hiccup in Javert’s return was that a few gendarmes had apparently been persuaded by (not entirely baseless) gossip to believe that he was dead. This was quickly refuted, of course, though it was revealed in the process that Officer Fournier was both _extremely_ easily startled, and capable of screaming at a pitch typically reserved for operatic sopranos.

All seemed to be back to normal— until Javert was sent to investigate a murder scene in an area of Paris most quickly reached via a route passing through a certain market square. In the square, he noticed a sight he had seen a million times before while on duty: a gamin, stolen food in hand, running from a gendarme, but definitely not fast enough to evade capture. And yet, this time, the sight could not be more different. 

Before the barricades, and the Seine, and Valjean, Javert would have given this situation practically no thought. It was black and white— there was a criminal, and there was an inferior officer doing his job, and the thief would be caught, and all would be right in the world. 

But that Javert was dead. He had drowned in the Seine. And in his place was a different Javert. One who, no matter how he wanted to, no matter how much it would simplify things, could not reduce the world to black and white. Could not ignore the conscience he had been made to develop. 

The gendarme apprehended the boy, and without even thinking, Javert rushed over to him. 

“Officer Giraud.”

“Inspector Javert? Don’t worry, I won’t let the perp distract me this time! I’ve learnt—”

“I’m sure you have. But I wish to relieve you of this case.” Giraud clearly did not understand, but was just as clearly too intimidated by Javert to protest. Javert grabbed the boy by the arm and led him briskly in a random direction away from Giraud. “Come with me, child.” 

“Inspector? I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, I—”

“Enough.” 

Clearly, either the boy was new to the streets of Paris, or Javert’s reputation among gamins had faded in the months since he had disappeared off the face of the earth— if the boy had been familiar with the old Javert, he would not have bothered pleading for mercy. 

“What is your name?”

“Michel.”

“Now, Michel, why did you steal that loaf?”

“I told you, I didn’t—”

“ _Why_ did you?”

Michel did not understand what was happening, but had no option but to answer. “My little brothers ‘n’ sisters… they needed food… ‘n’ I…” he trailed off. 

Javert sighed. There was no indication Michel was lying, and with Javert’s newfound conscience, he could not close his heart now. Still, he (temporarily) confiscated the bread, so Michel would not be tempted to dispose of the evidence and abscond. 

“What store was this from?”

Michel indicated a market stall manned by a short, matronly woman, selling various baked goods. Javert did not need to manhandle the boy this time as they both walked to the stall (though he still did not let him out of his sight). 

“Did this boy steal from you, Madame?”

“Oh!— yes, Inspector, I was just here, keepin’ my shop, when he ran up, grabbed the loaf right from the table! Of course, I’m not as young as I once was, couldn’t chase after ‘im myself, but I started callin’ out, ‘Stop Thief!’, and then I saw the gendarme goin’ after the little rascal, and—”

Javert held up a hand; the woman thankfully took the cue to cease her animated retelling of the entire incident. 

“How much would the loaf have been worth?”

She named a price. Javert dug in one of the pockets of his greatcoat, and found a few coins adding up to the amount she had specified. He presented the money, and gave the bread back to Michel. 

“There. The loaf has been paid for. You may go, Michel. The next time your siblings are hungry, look for a man with white hair giving alms near the Notre Dame cathedral. Good day,” and with a polite nod, Javert disappeared back into the crowd, heading towards his destination once more. 

Then, all at once, the significance of what he had just done sunk in for Javert.

First, there was the material consequence that would take effect upon Javert’s reputation. If little Michel had any gamin friends, the news would doubtless spread like wildfire, and soon every street-child in Paris would know that the fearsome Inspector Javert was back from the dead— and would buy food for any child who could put on a sufficiently sympathetic face. He could certainly not afford that, so he could only hope the advice to beg alms from Valjean would travel faster (Valjean, he knew, _could_ afford it, and would moreover be _glad_ to give out more alms every Sunday). And, if Giraud had overheard anything, the station gossip about Javert would be even more ludicrous than usual for a while. 

But (in a development that itself surprised him) this was not the aspect that stood out the most to him. It was the change it indicated in his character. 

The old Javert would never have done anything like that. Hell, he would probably have threatened to report a subordinate for doing it. And yet, _this_ Javert had done it, practically on instinct. This conscience, this thing Valjean had created in him, had driven him to an action he would not have even _considered_ before. 

His thoughts on this matter soon took a turn; his legs continued to walk, but his mind was elsewhere. How could he continue to do his job, if this sense of nuance would make him second-guess every decision that would otherwise have been obvious? How could he make any arrests, if there would be a voice in his mind pleading sympathy for any criminal with a noble motive? Really, how could he play at having done good today, when there were a thousand gamins in Paris less lucky than Michel, and multitudes more who Javert had not even considered, whose plights had been ignored by unfeeling officers, whose siblings had starved because of people just like the man Javert had once been— and when that was only one of the infinitely many categories of unfortunate wretches driven to crime by circumstances but treated as subhuman regardless— and not to mention those affected indirectly by every arrest—widows and orphans—who Javert’s previous philosophy had _killed_ —who it was _too late to help now_ — _oh God, how could he even continue to—_

—Javert stopped. 

His absent-minded wandering had led him to the Seine. Even now, his hands were gripping the parapet. 

Horrified with himself, he stumbled back a step. 

_No._

_**No.** _

**_Not again._ **

These had been the same thoughts, the same dark spiral, as that night after the barricades. But… this was an immensely different situation than that night, that night when he had seen no reason not to follow through. 

And the primary difference was not that it was broad daylight, or that there were people about, or that he had somewhere to be, or the name of the sympathetic bread-thief who had inspired the crisis. 

It was, Javert realised, the connection he had now formed with the _first_ sympathetic bread-thief. 

The night he would have died, he thought he had nobody in the world who truly cared for him. No family, no friends, only colleagues, and his choice to die would hurt none of _them_ — he was sure his new doubts would make him useless to superiors, while equals and inferiors might pretend to mourn, but would undoubtedly do nothing but gossip the second the public’s back was turned (they already did so whenever they thought Javert was out of earshot, and he doubted many of those men had any qualms to speak ill of the dead, especially when the death's circumstances would themselves provide new and intriguing gossip material). No, Javert had nobody to miss him, that night— or so he had thought. 

But then Valjean had done the inconceivable, fished Javert out of the river and forced him to live. And ever since then, the two men had struck up something resembling friendship (Javert made himself ignore the strange way his heart seemed to ache as he thought that word). 

And before Javert had left Valjean’s home to return to work, Valjean had made Javert promise that if dark thoughts consumed him again, he would consult Valjean before the river. 

And Javert could not betray Valjean. It was this, above all else, that led Javert to turn away from the river, this day. _He could not betray Valjean._ The man had troubles enough in his life already— Javert could not bear to hurt him more, force him to endure the pain of finding out—and through the goddamn _newspaper_ , of all ways—that the man who _promised_ him to live, to seek help if he needed it, had gone and killed himself anyway. And it was due to the very same conscience that had catalysed the crisis in the first place that Javert could not bear to do this, no matter how loudly the Seine sang her siren-song— it was due to this conscience, that Javert turned away from the edge, and resolved to not go back. 

He would work out how to reconcile his duty with a moral compass. He _had_ to; there was no other option. He knew his call, despite any doubts that may present themselves— and who knows, perhaps this new empathy that had led him both to and away from the river would come in handy solving mysteries. 

In any case, Javert was expected at a murder scene, and he was late. He decided that he would blame his tardiness on ‘uncooperative crowds’, and, if questioned further, immediately redirect the conversation to _relevant_ matters— after all, there should be no time for chatting when one has a homicide to solve. 

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest I highkey projected some aspects of my own depression onto Javert in this fic, but I think it turned out pretty in keeping with him as a character at this point in post-seine. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
